Blanket Fort
by Yesilian
Summary: Monday is laundry day, Tuesday is for shopping. Thursday night is movie night and Fridays, they just hang out. But on one Wednesday, they built a blanket fort.


"Sherlock, you home?" John yelled entering the flat through the kitchen. He was carrying three heavy bags full of groceries and wouldn't have minded a hand with them. If Sherlock was there, he didn't make a sound. Typical. Exasperated, John set down the bags on the half of the kitchen table that was actually bare and usable and went to look for his friend.

He found him in the sitting room, lying on the couch with his back to John. He was wearing his lounge attire, pyjamas and a dressing gown, the latter of which was still fluttering. Probably because he had hurriedly turned around when he had heard John's footsteps, the better to pretend he was asleep and thus, sadly, unable to help.

John sighed at the display. Four years.

"I know you're awake. Now, move your lazy arse and help me put away _your_ food." Sherlock didn't move a single hair.

"Fine. You're asleep. I just put away this stuff and leave you to it, shall I? Wouldn't want to disturb your rest." John didn't move from where he stood, waiting. His patience was rewarded a moment later.

"Maybe I'll wake up from all the ruckus you'll make?" Came a little voice, muffled by sofa cushions.

"Oh no. Please, I'll be very quiet. Maybe I'll just leave everything where it is." John walked over to the sofa, barely stopping on his way to pick up the blanket that was haphazardly thrown over part of the back of his old chair and carelessly threw it over Sherlock and the sofa so that he was buried under it completely.

"There. You're warm now, sleep." He could hear Sherlock huff indignantly and went back into the kitchen, hearing behind him the sounds of a six feet tall detective arranging himself under the blanket. John started putting away the shopping and lost hope for help. Sighing to himself he had to confess that it was somewhat comforting to know that after all, everything was essentially the same.

He went back to look after Sherlock's mood when he was done. He hadn't moved from under his blanket, rather rearranged it and himself under it. John was reminded of times in his youth, childhood more, when he would crawl under his duvet and pretend to be cut off from the world. Looking back, his problems then were virtually non-existant, but to an eight-year-old everything seems big and he was safe in his little nest.

"Don't put that blanket over your head, you'll suffocate." He scolded.

"I'm not a child, John, you can't scare me." Child, no, every grown-up hides away under blankets from time to time. John chuckled softly to himself.

"I also know that you don't get a belly ache from eating raw cookie dough and when you make a face like this and the clock strikes, it won't stick, or whatever else lies adults tell." He sounded appropriately petulant for such a speech.

"No, but just make sure you're getting some fresh air under there." John rubbed his hands together and looked over his shoulder, at the door. He actually had some plans for the day and Sherlock seemed reluctant to a visit, so maybe he could just leave without too much of a bad conscience.

Sherlock, without even seeing him, knew what he was thinking about, not exactly refuting John's long-lasting suspicions of his mind-reading abilities. He snapped the blanket from his face and turned to look at John, accusingly.

"You want to leave!" He alleged.

"Yeah. Look, you're obviously not in the mood..." John began.

"You can't leave. You barely just came. Shouldn't you make me watch some ridiculous movie or other now?" John gaped at him.

"Movie night is Thursday night." He said blankly.

"So? Today's Thursday." With one characteristically graceful swoop he sat up on the sofa, rearranging the blanket neatly over his legs. "Let's watch."

"Today's Tuesday." John informed him.

"Really?" That didn't seem right.

"Yeah. And Tuesday is grocery day. That's why I did the shopping today." John pointed at the empty kitchen table behind him, as if that could clear things up.

"Hm. I thought Tuesday was laundry day." Sherlock said in a tone that wasn't meant to hide his mistrust, as if John was trying to lead him on.

"No, that was yesterday. Monday."

"Huh. What is Wednesday then?"

"Tomorrow we'll take a walk, to get you out of the flat and let Mrs Hudson tidy up behind your lazy arse."

"Interesting. Fridays?"

"Fridays we just hang out."

"Saturdays? Sundays?"

"Ah, yes that's interesting you should bring that up. You see, the week-ends, I spend with my fiancée." They had had this arrangement for weeks now, leave it to the most-observant man in the world to not have recognised the pattern.

"That doesn't seem fair. She gets you every night, why does she also get to have you for the whole week-end?" Sherlock probed sorely.

"Sherlock." Warningly. "Don't you think you and I spend enough time together?" It was worth a try. John figured if Sherlock found out the truth behind the words himself he was more likely to believe it. But it was a long shot

"No." He immediately dismissed. "I don't remember being part of that discussion and feel mistreated. Why don't I ever get to have you for a night?"

"I stayed all day _and_ night last Friday!" John yelled incredulously. That was four days ago! Sherlock waved it away.

"That was for a case, it doesn't count. The work comes first." He glared at John as if he had dared to have forgotten that one all-important rule, trying to brand it onto him once and for all with a burning stare.

"It's _always_ for a case! You do nothing but work or … mope or sulk!"

"Yes! And I think that shouldn't count into my time with you. You should deduct that." They stared at each for a little while, knowing that the one to break eye contact first admitted defeat. Surprisingly, it was Sherlock.

"It's only fair." He murmured under his breath, arranging his blanket unnecessarily.

"Right. Well, anyhow, I really have to go. I promised to be at the surgery when they draw up the schedule for next month." Sherlock slumped onto his back and pulled the blanket back over his head, effectively ending the conversation. "So. Yeah." John waited for a reply. "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

When John came around the next day, Sherlock was still under the blanket. Except, it had been joined by others. They were draped over the back of the sofa and chairs that had been dragged from their original spots into the middle of the room. The coffee table had been pushed to the side to open up more space.

There was now a tent-like thing in the sitting room. Judging by his general absence and what looked like a laptop cord running into the thing, Sherlock was in it. John stared at it, a little wonder in his eyes.

"Sherlock?" He asked carefully. He wasn't sure if he should be mad at the general state of chaos in the room or amazed. For now he postponed that decision.

"In here, John." Came his voice from the tent. John went around, looking for an entrance. Finding it, he got to his hands and knees and put his head into the 'door'. Sherlock was, probably still, clad in his pyjamas and sat on one of the sofa cushions on the ground, leaning his back against the couch for support. He had his computer on his lap and was reading something on it.

"Hi." John said, still unsure what to make of all it.

"Hi." Sherlock looked up from the computer and beamed at him, positively beamed at John and in that moment John decided that he liked the idea of an impromptu tent. Very much. If it could make Sherlock smile so, John liked it.

The tent was held up in the middle by a broomstick and John didn't want to think about how that was held up right now. The blankets fell down steeply from there, sagging until they were held up again by the chairs, resulting in actually very little space inside the tent, even though the floor area was big enough.

"Cosy." John remarked, crawling in fully and letting the curtains fall close behind him. Sherlock shuffled a little to the side on his cushion, making room for John to sit next to him. He took the invitation.

They sat shoulder to shoulder, both hunched over and John took a look at the laptop display.

"Whatcha doing?"

"Research." John couldn't make a lot of it. It was some study about some effect or other of some chemical on something. Quite boring.

John looked around him, taking in the structure of the tent and the badly connected different sheets.

"This your first fort?" He asked when he became too bored.

"My first what?" Sherlock asked, looking at him.

"Fort. We used to build tons of these when I was a kid." Sherlock looked as if the had never heard of such a thing. John giggled.

"Right. See, the thing is, you tied those sheets together. You would have gone cleaner if you had stapled them."

"I can't staple them, that would ruin perfectly good sheets." Sherlock said as if he explained that water was indeed always wet.

"Yeah, in that case, tape." Sherlock considered it.

"Okay..." He said after a while. "What else?"

"Well, you should raise the edges. The broomstick in the middle is a good idea, but you see what it does to the edges. We need more of those to get ourselves some room."

"But we only have the one broom." Sherlock complained as if it was John's fault for not anticipating a fort crisis and accordingly equipping them with a sufficient supply of brooms. John looked at him with something akin to pity in his eyes.

"Use your imagination, man!" He reprimanded. Sherlock pouted.

"What then?" He asked sounding offended.

"Well, you have enough books to build columns. That should suffice." He got back to his knees and hands and started crawling out.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked. John tore away the tied-together sheets over his head. Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes.

"What are you doing? You're destroying it!" He accused.

"No, we're starting over. Come on, get up! I'll teach you!" He held out his hand. Sherlock put his laptop to the side and took it, hauling himself up on John's outstretched hand.

* * *

They started by untying the sheets and taping them together until they had one, huge sheet. They were of different colours and mixed together nicely.

Then they dragged books from the shelves and piled them up in the four corners of a neat 2m by 2m square, with the sofa as one wall. John found that the broom had been glued to the floor with carpet tape. He couldn't completely remove the residue and decided to just put a rug over it later, lest Mrs Hudson complained.

The book pillars hold up nicely and with a great deal of care they could drape their new, big sheet over them, securing it in place with more heavy books. Even Sherlock had to confess that John knew what he was doing. They reinforced the sides and made sure that no direct light could shine through cracks in the fabric. It was an impressive structure they had build themselves. Almost professional, with a lot of self-made charm.

"We need pillows now." John informed him and Sherlock didn't question their purpose. They went through the flat, collecting every pillow and cushion they could gather. At one point Sherlock came up with an armful of cushions John had never seen and suspected had been nicked from Mrs Hudson's flat, but he didn't say anything.

They spread their findings inside of their fort until it was a comfortable nest of soft cushions. At last, they sat down and admired their work.

"This is rather nice." Sherlock conceded. "You do know what you're talking about."

"Ta." It was a rare compliment and John took it gratefully.

"What else did you do when you were a child?" Sherlock asked. John looked him over. It struck him once more that Sherlock never had what John called a normal childhood, with pillow forts and tree houses and sleep overs. He smiled a little pained, thinking of things that Sherlock might enjoy.

"Dunno. Eat raw cookie dough?" He said at last, remembering their talk from the day before. Sherlock's eyes lit up at the mention of it and John smiled wider.

"Do you want to eat raw cookie dough?" He asked, knowing the answer.

"Do we have everything we need for it?" Sherlock answered with a question.

"Let's find out."

* * *

They had to borrow flour from Mrs Hudson. Sherlock wanted to just steal it, but John thought it more polite to ask for it. Once he explained what they needed it for, Mrs Hudson ended up making it for them. It tasted better than anything they could have come up with themselves.

She also brought them some tea and was astonished at their fort.

"I'm not going to clean that up!" She exclaimed, but good-naturedly. She let 'her boys play' and went back to her own flat.

"We're not _playing_." Sherlock said scandalized and disgusted by the insinuation. John chose to not remark on it, thinking that she was probably right.

"Wanna watch a movie?" He asked evasively.

* * *

They watched two and then some documentary about dung beetles, all on Sherlock tiny laptop. Even though they had more space now, they still sat huddled together so they could both see the screen. It was getting uncomfortable after twenty or so minutes until John put this arm on the sofa in their backs and let his fingers rest gently on Sherlock's other shoulder. Sherlock, spurred by that, decided touching was permissible and wrapped his arm around John's waist. There were no longer any sharp elbows pressing into anybody's rips. It was much more comfortable like that.

At some point John's phone rang.

"Ah crap." He said when he saw it was Mary. "Hi sweetie." He sounded guilty. Sherlock tried not to listen, because for once he honestly didn't want to know what was being talked about, didn't want to hear when Mary ordered him back home, away. But of course it was impossible with John and his phone so close by.

Sherlock had slid down somewhat some time earlier, the better to rest his head on John's shoulder. Now the brought up his free hand to stop the video stream. John looked at him with a thanks in his eyes and Sherlock, not knowing what came over him, laid his hand not back down on the floor where it was before but instead onto John's stomach. John looked surprised, their eyes locking in wordless conversation. Sherlock tried to look up at him innocently.

"I'm sorry, I forgot the time." He listened for a moment. "No, if you don't mind, I'd like to stay here tonight. Okay?" John's face was so expressive. Right now he looked truly sorry, but determined. When he was sure John didn't mind the position of his hand, Sherlock took that as the signal he was allowed to study his face unabashedly, too. Now he was able to fade out the conversation and examined every line in his face and every minute change in those dark blue eyes that not once left his.

John hung up, putting his phone on the sofa and breaking eye contact. He sighed.

"Are you staying?", Sherlock asked with his eyes still on John's face.

"Yeah." John looked at the laptop, hitting the space bar and the documentary resumed, filling their nest with sounds again. After a minute, he lifted his hand to lay it on top of Sherlock's where it rested on his stomach. John turned his head a little and pressed a small kiss to Sherlock's forehead. They watched the end of their documentary. Neither of them took in a word of it.

* * *

"Do we have any blankets left?" John asked an hour later.

"Do you want to sleep here?" Sherlock asked back.

"Sure. Why not? All the pillows are here anyway and I really don't want to tear it down. Took us too long to build to destroy it already, don't you think?" Sherlock surveyed their tent.

"I rather think so." He agreed.

They took the duvet off John's old bed and the one from Sherlock's and brought them into the fort. They rearranged the cushions and pillows until they formed a kind of mattress, one that probably wouldn't survive the night, but sufficed for now. They laid down side by side, facing each other.

"Good night, Sherlock." John said.

"Good night, John." It was dark, the little light from the street filtered even more by the sheets around them, but some light shone through. It was enough to look into each other's eyes until John drifted off.

* * *

Sherlock woke up with John half on top of him. It was really warm in the tent, John's body warmth and the two duvets only adding to the temperature so that Sherlock was sweating slightly. He looked at John's head and tensed. Enough, that John woke up from it.

He rubbed at his eyes and looked down at Sherlock.

"What's up?" He croaked, his voice rough with sleep. He moved only enough to see Sherlock better, but otherwise stayed on top of him. Sherlock looked at the ceiling, not knowing what to say or think.

"Sherlock?" John probed after a couple of minutes of silence. Sherlock could only shrug.

"Hey, talk to me." John slid his hand down Sherlock's chest, finally prompting him to say something.

"I just didn't think you'd still be here." He said at last.

"Where else would I be, at half seven in the morning?" Sherlock shrugged his shoulders again.

"Don't know. At home? Work?"

"You though I'd have left." John stated, Sherlock stayed silent.

"Hey, look at me." He turned Sherlock's head to face him. "I'm not going to leave you, ever. You understand me?" After a minute and finding the truth written in John's eyes, Sherlock nodded.

"I'm just sleeping somewhere else at night now. Nothing else will ever change, I promise."

"That's ridiculous."

"Yeah, I know." It was doomed.

* * *

AN: Yeah, sorry, I don't know. I read the "pillow fort" prompt somewhere and went with it, thinking it would turn out all fluffy and domestic and then it became this. I just can't bring myself to stray too far from tv canon, so here.


End file.
